Genius Revisited
by George Esmerelda
Summary: The classic 'Erik and *drumroll* another woman' theme, with a decidedly sci-fi twist. I have no idea where this is going, my character is flighty. Rating changed due to language. *WIP* Chapter 10 Uploaded
1. Caught in the Act

"I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here" she chanted to herself.   
"I'm gonna get caught, they're gonna kick my ass, ohmygod, I should NOT be here." She was walking down a fairly deserted corridor in the Paris Opera House.   
"I don't even speak French. Good Lord, what am I DOING here."   
Then again, why shouldn't she be here? It was a strange leap that had gotten her to Paris, anyway. She never involved herself in school activities, just this once, and it had happened to be the one club that had decided to send a few members to Paris on a "learning trip". It was truly bizarre.   
She'd read The Phantom of the Opera so many times, she could quote passages from the text. There was no way she was going to miss the chance to see the famous building, sneaking away from the group and the repercussions didn't matter. It was almost 9 'o clock, the building was nearly deserted, except for the odd guard or two. She couldn't believe there was no security system and her every step was taken nervously as she prayed fervently that the discordant jangling of an automated alarm wouldn't disturb the calm Parisian night.   
"My god" she breathed, disbelieving. "He did way too much research." The 'he' she was referring to was Gaston Leroux, and the whispered comment to no one was made because she had found an isolated dressing-room. Not just any dressing room, she knew it in her bones. This was where the novelist had set the fate of his brain-child Christine Daae, the dressing room that would belong, in reader's minds, to the young prima donna for all eternity.   
She knew it wasn't rational, that there was no reason for her to be sneaking around finding places that the story had been modeled after, but that didn't matter to her now. The book had been her favorite for years, and was rarely seen without the company of her love-worn tattered paperback. She had it with her now and clutched convulsively at the creased cover, jumping at every small sound. She pulled her flashlight from the green and black purse she had slung over her left shoulder and swept its beam over the walls near the door.   
"Damn it." She mouthed. The light switch was nowhere to be found. In a swift moment of foresight she'd stowed away a few taper candles and matches in her purse, which she now lit and placed on the vanity table. She pulled a chair in front of the table, back to the enormous mirror lining an entire wall. This was the moment she'd imagined in her dreams. Taking a deep, rapturous breath, she opened the book to the prologue and began to read. "The Opera ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists..."   
She swung the book down into her lap and gazed wildly about the room. She was certain that she'd HEARD those words spoken, had not merely read them as she had countless times before. She half-whispered half-sung "the phantom of the opera is here, inside my mind" and chuckled. That was nothing new to her, certainly. She was never simply a fan of anything, but threw her mind and soul into it, a habit that her friends often sighed over in consternation.   
She reopened the book, noting with irritation that yet another page had come loose. "So you sing, do you?" it was the same voice she'd thought she'd heard reading. A man's voice, very soft, with a heavy French accent. A beautiful voice, really. If she didn't know better...no.   
"You're such a retard." She thought to herself. "Maybe you should see a psychiatrist after all. What the hell are you doing here? I can just imagine trying to explain this to some police officer…in English, no less. They'll think 'stupid American' and get my ass deported. Without even going to the Louvre."   
"Mlle, why are you here in the dead of night, reading my book?" The voice was not imaginary. She stood up, frightened.   
"I-I apologize, messieur, for my trespassing."   
  
  
  
  
~~~Authoress's Note~~~ Please, please, please review. Sorry about my heroine's less than elegant language, that will change along with the revealing of her name. :) This story will pick up in the next few chapters and get more original, while stealing from the Twilight Zone...   
Needless Disclaimer You know darn well what I don't own, and that I'm not making any money off of this. Please don't sue me. Thank you, and enjoy the show. 


	2. The Plot Thickens

She paused.   
"Your book?" She said stupidly. It sounded odd, even to her ears.   
"Perhaps you could be of use to me." The voice mused. She felt her heart begin to pound in reaction to the silky sweet voice.   
"Now is not the time to go hormonal." She commanded herself silently. Who knows who I'm even talking to.   
"Face the mirror." The voice was gentle but insistent now, with a definite note of command. She got up from the chair demurely, trying to look like a harmless tourist. To her shock, she found no stern-faced night guard, merely her own reflection in the mirror. She was more than anxious now.   
Wondering what had possessed her to come here. What she was doing in France at all. She could be home listening to the purring of her cat with a good book-undoubtedly the one she held in her hand-in front of her face. Not feeling as if she was about to face the firing squad. Talking to a man that chose not to disclose his location.   
"Like Erik," she thought wildly.   
"How felicitous you should appear here." The voice continued, disregarding her discomfiture entirely. "If you agree to help me, I just may," he emphasized the word, "decide to not disclose your trespass to the night watch."   
She hadn't expected this. Her first instinct was to agree, but she realized with a start that this person could want anything from her, and she responded warily.   
"I am interested in your offer. Please tell me what kind of help you have in mind." Did he hear her voice quivering? She closed her eyes a moment and waited for a reply.   
He laughed. The unexpected sound flowed mellifluously through the air in waves, and she was hard put to keep her composure. It was not an unpleasant sound, in fact quite the opposite. In order to reign her thoughts back to the immediate problem, she became exasperated.   
"Please, messieur, if you don't mind."   
The voice replied back, amused. "Perhaps you are exactly the person to help me, indeed."   
She closed her eyes again. The fear she had felt before channeled nicely into irritation, a fact that pleased her. Both emotions could lead to problems, but she was infinitely more comfortable in the power of anger. Nevertheless, she attempted to calm herself by deeply breathing with closed eyes.   
She opened them again ,more in control of herself and aware of a draft. She gasped. Before her was a passageway of stone where the mirror had stood moments before. A man also had appeared. 


	3. A fine kettle of fish

Note: Thanks to the two of you who reviewed, I feel very special. :) I'm very very sorry if the layout turns out screwy, I'm on vacation and on my grandparents' computer, which is painfully screwed up. I will be fixing it as soon as I get home (then again, if it's fine, disregard all this). As always, please review!   
  
  
  
  
  
She gasped, incredulous.   
"This isn't happening," She thought, numb. "What have I fallen into?"   
The man continued to stand, seemingly unsurprised at her dumbstruck reaction. She swallowed convulsively and blinked several times. He was still there, the passageway still gleamed with ancient stone.   
"Who are you?" She demanded, determined to not be intimidated by this obviously eccentric and possibly dangerous person.   
"I daresay you know," the man replied evenly.   
"I know who you are dressed as," she replied warily.   
And she did. He stood slightly less than six feet tall, and was dressed all in black. The more she looked at him, she realized that his dress was severely outdated by one hundred years or more, right down to the formerly fashionable black dress cloak. His arms were crossed leisurely across his chest and she noted the gracefully long fingers he possessed.   
The real shock came when she looked up at his face. Unlike the more popular conception, this man wore a pure black full mask over his face, through which his eyes could be seen. They were amber yellow, eerily reflected in the flickering candlelight. At first she was sure that they were contact lenses, but they were too purely defined for even the most expensive pair.   
"So that's just a weird coincidence," she sternly told herself. "What are you thinking, anyway?"   
"I am who I appear to be, mlle."   
She was angry now. She didn't know who this person was or what he hoped to accomplish, but she had been too long a phan to tolerate this apparent exploitation of her feelings.   
"I fail to see, sir, what you hope to achieve. You would certainly be dead if you truly were, but," she faltered with the pain she always felt with this admission, "Erik never existed."   
"You shall see," he said, softly. "Get the candles, please." He nodded towards the flickering tapers.   
Against her better judgement she turned and picked up the two candles from the vanity table where they reposed, then returned to her former standing position at the threshold of the passageway.   
"Come," he said, beckoning with one long-fingered hand. Something indefinite was tugging at her senses, and she felt she had no option but to follow this strangely compelling masked man. 


	4. Wandering Aimlessly

They walked in silence for several minutes, during which time she became more nervous with each passing moment. They were decending into the bowels of the opera house, an opportunity which she would have gladly given her left arm for in different circumstances. He had taken one candle, and she the other, but while he seemed to have no trouble keeping the thing alight, she was struggling mightily with it.   
  
"What year is it, madamoiselle?" He startled her by asking.   
  
"2002," she answered warily. Gathering her courage she blurted out, "Look, who are you? Not that I don't appreciate the getup but I'd like to know why."  
  
He bade her stop walking, then walked to her front to study her face. "I believe that the answer you seek lies within your book, I daresay you've read it?"  
  
She found herself blushing and staring at the book in her hand, which chose that moment to shed another page. He retreived it from the ground with a flourish. "  
  
Yes, I know who you are dressed as. I want to know why." Usually timid around people, she was unusually calm considering the situation. The bizarre lack of reality was leaving her with a disconnected feeling and lack of fear towards this apparently mentally unhinged individual.   
  
"I will not attempt to explain now," he said and again began walking. "You shall understand in due time."  
  
It was rather damp and chilly in the cellars, a direct contrast from the upper levels of the building, which were kept in a museum-like state despite the continuing functionality of the theatre. He noticed her shivering and solicitously suggested that they take a shortcut.   
  
"Good plan," she said somewhat acidly. She immediately regretted baiting this stranger, but he seemed to take no offense.   
  
"This way," he commented whilst opening a previously invisible door in the stone wall.  
  
She shrugged and followed him through this door and several others until he stopped abruptly and looked back at her. His amber eyes burned, but not malevolently. They were searching her face, for what she did not know. It felt, however, that her very soul was being exposed in this moment. He turned back to the wall again and with a swish of air a bizarre panorama was exposed through yet another door. The lake. She'd read numerous histories and biographical accounts of the life and work of Charles Garnier, but nothing had prepared her for this moment.   
  
Grey stone was to the sides with a modest shore of dirt in front. The water itself was iron-grey and murky, reflecting eerily in the feeble light provided by the two candles. The man, whom she was beginning to refer to in her mind as Erik, try as she might to rebel against it, stepped into the dirt and gracefully began the short walk to yet another wall roughly ten feet away.   
  
She hesitated. What was going to happen? She knew this man was not Erik, the notion was simply impossible. Yet who was he? This hour of the night and so deep underground, no one would be around to hear her scream. His manner had not seemed sinister in the least, but her innate fear of fellow human beings held her back.   
He had noticed when she ceased to follow.   
  
In his beautiful voice he spoke to her in French, enticing her not with words but with sound to follow him, trust in her safety. The words he spoke she did not understand, but the melody woven without notes drew her across the short distance and she waited beside him for the wall to reveal what lay behind.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*~*Author's Note: Yeah, I know my chapters are short. That's mostly because I'm evil. :) Please, please r&r! I'm sorry to a few of you that I had conversations going with...long story short the marching band stole my soul and I just started at a new school. No excuse, I know. On a more story-related note my character is going to ^gasp^ reveal her name and the plot may or may not actually develop...Sorry if this doesn't format right. I only act like I know what I'm doing. 


	5. Je m'appelle

Part of the wall swung inward almost noiselessly. In that moment she felt the boundaries of what she'd come to know as reality melt away, for what she now saw could not be dismissed as anything but what it was- the lair of the Phantom.   
  
"Oh", she gasped, feeling faint. The room she was facing was elegantly furnished and full of priceless antiques (though, she reflected dizzily, they were probably new when first placed there). Mahogany with accents of dark velvets and brocades seemed to be the main theme, something that would have tickled her fancy anywhere. He gave a small bow, almost mocking.   
  
"Welcome to my home. As you must already know, I," and here he paused for a fraction of a second, "am Erik". Flashes of memory played before her eyes of the book, movies, and stage plays. When was the last time he had brought someone here and revealed his name? "...I am not an angel, nor a genius, nor a ghost...I am Erik..." And yet the man himself did not seem disturbed by any mental comparison.   
  
"Well, I always have been oversensitive," she thought, feeling rather giddy. She looked up into his masked face and met his eyes.   
  
"So its true," She leaned against the wall, stunned, "All of it".   
  
She was seized with a sudden pain of emotion. Christine, the vapid Raoul, his loveless life. She had shed many tears for the fictional Erik, but how could one react to the inscrutable figure before her?   
  
"With some minor alterations". His voice was carefully neutral.   
  
"How is it, I mean, how can you be..." she trailed off, embarrassed.   
  
"Why am I not dead, you mean?" She nodded mutely.   
  
"Rather a complex device of my own design."   
  
"Care to elucidate?"   
  
"A blend of certain chemicals inhaled in an airtight box produces a state of suspended animation for a defined period of time."   
  
She widened her eyes, fascinated. "With no negative effects on the nervous system?"   
If he was surprised at the change in feminine education, to his credit he gave no outward sign of it. "None."  
  
"Incredible." She gazed about briefly in wonder. "What about the furniture?"   
  
"Now that, he said, is something else altogether. There will be time for that later, mademoiselle…"  
  
"Gwyndolyn. Lee. Gwyndolyn Lee."   
  
"If you'd care to have a seat, Mlle. Gwyndolyn", she interrupted,   
  
"Just Gwyndolyn is fine", and he nodded in acknowledgment,   
  
"I shall enlighten you as to your purpose here." She felt mildly indignant but resolved to say nothing.   
"I have been, for lack of a better term, asleep since 1890." She nodded as he sat on an armchair, crossed his legs leisurely, and folded his arms across his chest. She also took a seat, but did not relax. A million things were going through her mind, not the least of which was "ohmygod, I'm hanging out with ERIK", but she endeavored to look attentive.   
  
"I require someone to inform me of the various changes that have taken place during the last 112 years. Regrettably, you will have to stay in my home for an indefinite period, but, he looked away, focusing on something unseen, even monsters are not always odious."   
  
"What?" She nearly shouted.   
  
"Rest assured, I am harmless." He said, no longer strong and confident, his tone was gloomy and resigned. This was the reaction he had anticipated. Horror from the unsuspecting female. Perhaps he would have done better getting his information in some other fashion.   
  
She had gotten up, was standing in front of him. He could tell she was angry, but not for the reason he suspected.   
"What did you say?" Before he could reply she was demanding an answer from him again. "What did you call yourself?"   
  
Really, what was this all about? She had obviously read the book, she knew what he was. This girl hadn't seemed of a cruel nature but she was demanding he repeat what was so hard to say.   
  
"A monster!" He spat venomously. His legs uncrossed and he seemed ready to spring from the chair, fingers clutching at the rests. "A hideous murderer, abductor of innocent singers! Is that what you wanted confirmed?"   
  
She fell to her knees in front of him, crying. Now what?   
  
"That's what you truly believe? I've prayed for so long that you, even when I thought you'd never existed, did not believe this. My god, the misery you must endure! So few people believe that you did not deserve all the happiness denied you. How many, like me, have yearned to tell you so?" she paused, "I'm sorry", she sighed. "I seem to have taken a melodramatic turn." She rose and wiped at her eyes.   
  
Erik decided to say nothing, but was stunned at what he'd heard. Gwyndolyn was turning out to be a rather interesting young woman indeed.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
~*~Author's Note: Woo, two in one day. Not going to school does a lot for the creative juices, I 'spose. I sincerely hope this chapter doesn't suck...yes, I am trying to be at least vaguely funny. If you don't like anything, read and review 'cause that's the only way I'll ever learn! (BTW...is it just me or is my Erik acting like Hannibal Lecter? *shrugs* I learn as I go.) 


	6. Transition

Two days and several hundred minutes to Gwyndolyn's cell phone later, arrangements had been made for what Gwyndolyn was beginning to call The Great Fabrication, familiarly known as The Plan. Erik was getting his first taste of 21st century suspicion of one's fellow man, and found it refreshing. He'd always been that way.   
  
Thanks to the glorious Internet, Gwyndolyn had been able to explain the concept of cell phones, and more mystifyingly, computers. It hadn't been easy- she'd managed to use 10 hours on her hotel's phone line (she'd transferred the charges to her room-mate, a tortuously inane individual that thought of little else than fashion and how best to alienate those over her low standard- she was consequently quite popular) and a quantity of time summarizing the product of that research.   
  
The problem to which was devoted the most time was that of the girl's emancipation from her school group. A ridiculously simple plan had been devised and carried out, and Gwyndolyn was finally free. Loosely put, Gwyndolyn was now attending the fictional, but highly prestigious, Scientific Academy of Musical Art in Paris. Her parents had been quite pleased with her having been accepted.   
  
Erik was still suspicious of Gwyndolyn's motives, as he had expected a fierce struggle of wills with a person that would have been his prisoner. It had been an unexpected boon to find a person so quickly, one who knew his circumstances...a young woman..  
  
He pushed that thought aside without having registered it and looked around the room where he stood. All was in order and the room stood silently waiting for its guest. He gave a sad sigh as he walked down the dark hallway of his home.   
Erik had not prepared Christine's room for the girl- such a thing was not possible- the room of his beloved would remain sacred and remote though its former occupant would never again lay her sweet hand upon the rich draperies and it would remain bereft of her quiet sighs.   
  
He paused a moment at the door and took his mask in his hands. Touching a finger to his lips he offered a silent kiss to his lost angel as only a phantom can, then closed the door on his memories and prepared for the new day.  
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~*~Author's Note: Absurdly short, isn't it? Oh well, I'll try to make the next one a bit longer. I'm using literary devices (why yes, I have been avoiding my English homework. How ever did you guess?), and that's an adequately weak excuse. :) Thank you, thank you to Europa and Madame anonymous (I feel funny adressing you by your first name-lol-I've been using screennames for too long) for reviewing recently...knowing that _someone_ was reading made me start writing again. More soon! 


	7. Pay no attention to the crazy girl behin...

Twelve 'o clock. Twelve fifteen. Twelve thirty. She was not there. Gwyndolyn had promised…promised to meet him there at the side of the Opera on the Rue Scribe side at 11:30. The day before he'd given her the last of the francs obtained from milking the management more than a hundred years earlier and she'd embarked on a quest to try and find a buyer for the antique currency.   
  
Every so often Erik emerged briefly from his hiding place inside the stone to see if she had shown up. She hadn't. He ducked back inside.   
  
Anger began building inside him and soon he was nearly choking with impotent rage. So it had happened again. How could he have been betrayed for what seemed like the thousandth time in his life? Now he had no money and no clear way to earn any- Gwyndolyn had asserted somewhat gloomily in no uncertain terms that ghosts were rather hard to come by and much harder to find would be a person superstitious enough to believe in one. He rightly believed her.   
  
One more look into the street and he would leave to begin formulating another plan. No. So she was not coming, then. Wait...coming around the corner of the building, hurriedly walking, looking at a watch...a form slowly took shape in the glaring sunlight. It was she.   
  
He stood fully out into the street just long enough to be sure she saw, then disappeared back into the stone wall, taking care that no passersby observed the act. Gwyndolyn walked faster and soon reached the area where Erik had made his appearance. Looking around and seeing that no-one was watching, she began feeling for seams in the stone. A whoosh of air and a tiny portion of stone had receded to her right. She reached for it, but she was yanked to her left by someone strong, someone wearing black, someone very, very angry.   
  
Gwyndolyn yelped but the sound was muffled by the stone that rose behind her. "Oh! Erik, you nearly scared me to death!" She exclaimed in relief, starting to sag against the stone.   
  
They were in a small chamber at the end of a corridor that dropped into darkness a few meters ahead and she guessed that stairs lay at the edge of the darkness. An instant after she spoke, she realized that the air was coursing with electricity. She cocked her head quizzically. Erik was most definitely mad about something and she doubted that her punctuality (or lack thereof) was the cause.   
  
She stiffened defensively. "I'm sorry I'm late, but-" he cut her off mid-sentence.   
  
"Had better things to do than meet me here, did you?" His voice was deceptively cordial. "Perhaps you were dining with a nice young man at a charming bistro...with Erik's money? Indeed, what better thing to do on such a fine summer day as this?"  
  
His inexplicable use of the third person rather unnerved Gwyndolyn, whose lips tightened into a hard line and whose brown eyes hardened into a steely gaze that lifted to meet her antagonist's. He continued painting a whimsical picture with words of Gwyndolyn's lovely day outside and all the while his raw anger passed between the two people in the corridor, amplified by the stone, crashing and flowing like the endless waves of the sea.   
  
Gwyndolyn, the young woman with her eyes and permanent-waved hair of chocolate brown, with her carefully applied make-up and department store styled clothes, the outward epitome of carefree American teen-agerism, met the yellow-eyed stare of a hostile, tormented genius, and knew.   
  
Beyond the anger, beyond the irritation of waiting alone in the dark with only a lantern and his anguished thoughts for company. She knew. It was fear.   
  
Fear was the trigger of this towering rage, the cause of his almost mad raving. Fear of betrayal, being left alone. All that he was saying now was not directed at her, it was his own ineffectualness. His own human failings that he could or would not accept.   
  
She knew in that moment and he knew she knew it. Her features softened as he trailed off in embarassment and a gentle smile curved around her lips as she said, "Did you think I would not come?"   
  
She expected no answer and was not disappointed. She had seen behind his childish rage and he didn't know how to react. The air was different now that the anger had evaporated. He radiated shame, wanted to withdraw and seek solace from the shadows, she emitted something that seemed very like pity, perhaps patronization to Erik, as previous experience had never taught him of empathy.   
  
Without skipping a beat Gwyndolyn told him why she'd been late. "I think I found a buyer. He's a German fellow on vacation; a collector with plenty of Euros to waste. I checked around and nobody will pay much more than 2000 and he'll top that by a hundred..." she trailed off suddenly. Honestly, would the two of them ever finish a conversation without one of them lapsing into silence? She wondered detatchedly.   
  
He'd started to pace in the small passage and the atmosphere was suddenly tense again.   
  
"What?"   
  
He whirled to face her and she was taken slightly aback by the fierce frustration in his voice. "There is considerably more than 2100 worth of francs! That is scarcely enough to live on!"   
  
"Oh!" she exclaimed for the second time in ten minutes and her eyes twinkled mischieviously in the lantern-light as she said somewhat smugly, "I took care of that, too."   
  
She began leading the way down the passage and he was forced to follow. It was once again her turn to surprise him.   
  
"Tell me, if you please- what did you do?" She turned a radiantly excited face to him and said proudly, "next week I begin work as a concierge here at the Opera." She laughed gaily. "Not a terrifically glamorous job and I'm not particularly interested in ballets, but oh! The theatre! The music!"   
  
"It is rather astonishing that you've managed so much in one day," was all he could manage to reply.   
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~*~Author's Note: Bah hah! I finally came up with a long chapter. I'm using my literary devices again...*coughcoughforeshadowingcough*   
Europa-I worship the ground you walk on, you great goddess of reviews! :) Yeah, I'm still in high school (just a frigging sophomore. Will this torture never end? auugh!), and yeah, it's bloody evil.  
Jessica- No, the last chapter wasn't supposed to have the arrows and junk. Either ffn, my computer, or the gods hate me, because I have a mighty lot of trouble getting things formatted. I hope this chapter is better with that, and I'm sorry if its not. I'm glad you're liking the story despite its authoress's ineptitude. :)  
Did ya'll notice that I never described my character and then-bang! she was described ever so niftily? I planned it that way. Really. I didn't forget to describe her at a more convetional time (like the beginning...). *slinks off into the shadows* Ohmygosh. Its 1 in the morning. No wonder I'm babbling! Jeez! LOL  
Puh-leeze keep reading any reviewing, everyone! I'll stop with the exclamation points! Really! Bah ha ha haa haaaaaa*cough* hah haaa! *cough*cough*cough* Okay. I'm going to go to sleep now. Give me a break- I've been watching my taped episodes of Peewee's playhous all day. Does anyone remember that show? I love it. 'Kay. Really sleeping now. *wanders away singing 'connect the dots, la la la la..'* 


	8. I'll get you, my pretty And your little...

~*~Author's Note: Its about time for a disclaimer since I haven't done one yet and I don't feel like getting sued...I don't own Erik or any other character from Gaston Leroux's Phantom of the Opera, blah blah blah...if I use quotations from anything its with the highest respect...I'm not going by anything written in Susan Kay's Phantom because its just a glorified Phanphic (I love it, though! Please don't hurt me, lol!) and from this chapter on (I'm thinking specifically of what I have in store for the next few) anything that seems to correspond really doesn't...blah...the following is MY adaptation of a well-known Greek myth, and I didn't get the idea from an author here on ffn whose name will immediately spring to mind, I'm just a myth junkie. Don't steal my myth 'cause I didn't, I wrote it myself...yeah. Anyway. Back to the regularly schedululed programming. I'll be back with more very soon!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Within two days, life had settled into a pleasant camaraderie and thoroughly surreal domesticity. Erik was a surprisingly good cook and while they never ate together (because of the mask) dinner became a pleasant time of idle chatter for them both.   
  
The rest of the hours were spent in exhaustive learning and teaching, with the girl showing admirable patience. She was frequently astonished at the actual use she was putting to the tedium of school and was, for the first time in her life, glad of it. What kind of door had she opened that night that seemed so long ago- could it really have been less than a week?- when she'd gone in search of the dressing-room?   
  
Gwyndolyn sighed contentedly and rose to clear her dishes. Erik rose also, to take his food into his room and eat. "Wait," she said, coming back from the kitchen with a fruit in her hand. "I got some pomegranate at the market for dessert, would you like some?"  
  
"I didn't know pomegranate was in season this time of year," he replied, coming back. "I would like some, thank you."   
  
He followed her back into the kitchen. It had been a source of amazement to Gwyndolyn the moment she beheld it. The main feature, a cast iron stove, dominated the limited space, and was remarkable in that the smoke it produced went directly into a fireplace six stories above it. She went to the left of it now, pulling a knife from a drawer.   
  
"Maybe that's why it was so bloody expensive."   
  
Erik made a small noise that could have been either amusement or annoyance, and fetched two bowls from a cupboard.   
  
"I can never pass up pomegranates," she said whimsically. "They remind me of my favourite Greek myth."   
  
"Hades and Persephone?" He asked, vaguely surprised.   
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Such things fascinate you, do they not?" He was thinking of another story that paralleled.   
  
"Mm, I guess you could say that," she said, deliberately ignoring his reference. She continued rather dreamily, "A young goddess plays in the meadows and spies the most unusual, beautiful flower she'd ever seen."  
  
"A flower of darkness sent by the God of the Underworld, who had seen the beautiful girl and fell in love with her." He picked up the story.   
  
"As Persephone bent to examine the plant, the ground opened up-"  
  
"And Hades appeared with his chariot drawn by black horses to steal her away from the light and make her his queen."  
  
"Though he had frightened her at first, Persephone soon found that Hades was kind and gentle, that he truly loved her. She still could not forget the sunlight and her mother, so she refused to eat and rarely spoke-"  
  
"In order to punish her dark lord."  
  
Gwyndolyn was cutting the fruit as she spoke. "Her mother Demeter, goddess of the harvest, was heartbroken. She quickly discovered who was responsible for her daughter's disappearance and went to Zeus for help-"  
  
"But alas, the clever Hades had just made a present of a new lightening-bolt to his brother, and so the king of the gods was not so quick to help his sister Demeter against him. In her grief, she refused to let new plants bud and the world grew as cold and desolate as her heart."   
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they were moving towards each other in the telling of the story.   
  
"Persephone, meanwhile, was growing tired of sulking and began to warm to her situation. It was not so bad, really, living in the world of the dead. She was Queen, after all, and her King did not seem disposed to take on his brother Zeus's wandering ways. She began to weaken in her resolve not to eat until she was restored to her mother."  
  
"She was not aware, however, of her mother's efforts to free her. Zeus had grown tired of his people crying out to him for mercy, and the sound of their begging prayers for a harvest filled his ears night and day. Finally he agreed to help Demeter. One thing, he warned her, could keep Persephone from reaching the sunlight once more; she must not have tasted of the food of the dead. If but one crumb had touched her lips, she could never be free of the Underworld."   
Their voices were weaving a picture of the ancient gods and the stone walls seemed to melt away to reveal the soaring heights of Olympus and the darkest corners that lay beyond the river Styx. Gwyndolyn's eyes were shining and she was feeling rather lightheaded, so real was the picture being painted.   
  
"Hermes was dispatched immediately to fetch the young goddess from her living tomb, for Demeter was sure that in her grief, Persephone would not have been able to bring herself to eat."  
  
"At the very moment the messenger god began his decent from Olympus, Hades was once again cajoling his bride into eating. Surely but a few seeds from this pomegranate will not harm you, he was saying. Persephone could not think of any reason to refuse the fruit any longer as it was her favourite and the seeds were so very small. Just as she was putting the eighth seed to her mouth, Hermes appeared and, horrified, dashed it to the ground. Because Zeus was so worn from the destruction of the world and so tired of Demeter constantly pleading for her daughter, he agreed to a compromise."  
  
They were standing abreast of each other now and Gwyndolyn's hands dropped, forgetting their task. Her breathing quickened, but not audibly.  
  
"Since Persephone had eaten seven pomegranate seeds, for seven months of the year she would be required to return to the darkness and reign as Queen of the Underworld, but the rest of the time she was free to live above ground with her beloved flowers."  
  
"That is why there are seasons, for Demeter still grieves when her daughter is forced to return to the dark, melancholy cellars of the deceased."  
  
Gwyndolyn focused and raised her eyes to meet Erik's. She had been looking past him, lost in the story but now she was fully cognizant and ready with her reply, an ending of her own fabrication and one she particularly fancied. The air seemed to crackle as she stepped inside his penetrating gaze and finished the story.  
  
"What Demeter doesn't know, though, is that Persephone secretly enjoys her new home as much as the old one of light and looks forward to each willing return..."  
  
A sharp intake of breath from Erik. Gwyndolyn wondered at the beating of her heart. Could he possibly hear it? With agonizing slowness and painful timidity, he was reaching out his hand, and in a sudden flash of insight she realized he meant to take her hand in his. His long fingers twitched slightly at the tips as she raised the knife to put it down onto the counter. Time was moving as if through thick molasses and she angled her head slightly, never breaking eye contact. She heard the knife handle strike the hard countertop and flinched ever so slightly at the sound. It had been enough.  
  
"Ouch!" she gasped and snapped her head to see the source of pain. A small, rounded drop of bright blood oozed from her finger.   
  
The spell was broken. While she was still gazing in perplexity at the sharp knife in relation to the superficial but still highly uncomfortable wound on her finger, Erik had taken several steps back. Quickly ascertaining that there was no problem without needing to ask, he had food in hand and had disappeared into his room.   
  
Gwyndolyn sighed, almost tearfully without knowing why and looked back down to her finger, which had stopped bleeding. Her body was coursing with adrendaline and she stifled a giddy laugh in reaction as she looked at the pomegranate. All that and Erik hadn't even taken any. 


	9. Sounds like somebody needs a hug

"Something happened tonight," Gwyndolyn told herself. She was working at her laptop while stretched out on a seat in the main room, but her mind wasn't concentrated on her work.   
She was running over in her mind every moment of the strange story-telling encounter with Erik. Together their voices had molded something beyond the simple imagery of the ancient tale and a kind of understanding had passed between them. She stared into the empty hearth, absently fingering the small cut on her hand. What would have happened if she had not clumsily interrupted...?   
  
What made him leave so abruptly? She sighed and looked toward his closed door. It had stayed closed, rejecting her, for over an hour. What about the easy companionship they had shared?   
Abruptly a harsh minor chord shattered the silence and Gwyndolyn jumped. A winding, plaintive melody worked its way around the original notes. Her hand flew to her throat and she pushed the computer away. That melody, an extension of herself- her heart ached to her it, her very soul wept.   
  
Before realizing it she was standing before the door, which was somehow open. She realized, like looking through water, that she'd opened it herself but didn't remember doing it.   
  
The music continued, wrapping around her a solid cocoon of emotion, of loneliness and longing. In a moment she saw the world, black and cold, hanging like a remote jewel in its orbit among the stars. Hollow emptiness spread from her chest through her body. Her throat quivered, pleading.   
  
She was standing behind Erik now, who stroked the keys of an immense pipe-organ. She drew a shaking breath into her yearning lungs, fighting the instinct to raise her voice in song with the music that was shaking every fiber of her being.   
  
"Sing," he whispered entreatingly, never pausing the haunting tones.  
"Sing!" He commanded.   
  
Powerless to resist, Gwyndolyn opened her mouth. Voice met organ in a note of exquisite pain. Never before had she made a sound like this. She took up the melody, slightly muted with surprise. Though she'd never heard it or anything like it before, the music was her, part of her.   
  
Erik turned his head, still playing, and looked at her briefly. Behind the black mask his yellow eyes burned. He played accompaniment now; she let her soul dictate this music of her heart. As one they changed keys and both began faultless variations that twined intricately together. Without words there developed feelings of power, darkness, yearning for something undefined. Again they together changed keys back to the original and both knew that the end of this bizarre communion was nearing.   
  
Gwyndolyn's was the only sung voice of the two souls that lay naked and bare in the underground house. Her eyes closed as she pulled deep reserves of strength from her protesting body. She ached from extended breath support and began to quiver both from rapturous singing and the mere effort to remain standing.   
  
All at once the organ stopped but she continued to resolve the melody. A few seconds that seemed like years passed where only her voice echoed from the stone walls. And then, he sang.  
  
Gwyndolyn's eyes snapped open in shock to regard the source of this voice. "Truly the voice," she thought, "of an angel."   
The physical strain was too much, her wonder too great.   
  
As her vision blurred, save for the two burning bright lights of Erik's eyes that coolly observed her, and darkness began to close in, her last conscious thought was, "The angel of music..."  
  
  
  
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"Oh, child," Erik moaned as she swooned. "What have I done to you?"   
He caught her before she reached the ground. From a time apart something pricked at the back of his mind. What was it? "Tonight I have given my soul to you, and I am dead."   
  
Now Gwyndolyn lay, as Christine had once done, fainting in his arms. He never should have allowed this. He voice had obviously never been worked so, and, he looked at his watch, they had created this music over the better part of an hour.   
Tears pricked at his eyes and he held her limp body to him.   
  
"I am so truly sorry," he whispered into her hair. He lifted her and carried her to her room, where he gently laid her atop the bed. He would not have wished such music upon anyone, so strong were the feelings it evoked.   
  
"Rather," he mused bitterly, "like my Don Juan Triumphant."   
  
This was a young woman of infinite surprises, he realized as he regarded her now-sleeping form. So ironic and cynical, but in an instant whimsical and full of vitality. Tonight had revealed yet another side of her personality, one that had as yet only been hinted at. It was a side of darkness- or perhaps only shadow.   
  
Expression such as she'd revealed could not possibly be empathy. Such feelings, he knew from long exprerience of life and operas, could not be simulated. He stood at the foot of her bed and found himself smiling gently at this newly revealed Gwyndolyn.   
  
He wondered if the works of Poe had endured through the generations for this individual to read, and if she knew anything about architecture. He was suffused with a warm glow of eagerness, and could hardly wait for her to awake so that he could begin sharing with her his world.   
  
"My world." The warmth drained from him abruptly and was replaced with cold.   
  
"This experiment has gone on far enough," he told himself sternly and withdrew from the room. "I wondered if what I have already achieved was possible. It is. I am done. There is no reason for me to continue living in this world; it is no better than how I last saw it."   
  
Unbidden, the thought came. "Except for her. No!" He was reeling with inner turmoil as he uneasily paced the length of his bedchamber. "I never meant to get attached to this girl!" He was pleading to a god he had long ago ceased to believe in.   
"She was only meant to show me the ways of this time. Never would I have wished upon her the slightest affection nor friendship of a creature such as I!" Tears were coursing down his face now, and he had removed the mask.   
  
"I will tell her to leave tomorrow," He resolved, and climbed into the black coffin that served his living corpse as a bed.   
He could not know that night that the next day would come and go without doing such, and as he lay in the darkness in and out of troubled sleep, his tortured thoughts were filled with the memories of a young diva named Christine.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
~*~Author's Note: Living corpse? Creature? Dagnabit, Erik, you *don't* suck! Heh. That was my "don't flame me I don't really think that" disclaimer. Poor Erik. And for that matter, poor Gwyn! What's up with her now? And, hey, she doesn't seem like the fainting type! What am I THINKING?? ;) Guess you'll have to wait and see, eh?   
Europa: Well, I kind of have a system. If you're inside my brain and you concentrate really hard, the chapter names kind of make sense. Keep in mind that I have a bizarre (to say the least) sense of humour and naming things intimidates the heck out of me. Allow me to demonstrate (I love that phrase).   
Chapter 1: Gwyndolyn *was*. 'Nuff said.  
Chapter 2: The plot, such as it is, was doing some developing, plus I think that saying is funny.  
Chapter 3: I think this saying is HILARIOUS for what it means. Gwyndolyn was weirded out by the crazy guy in a Phantom 'costume' who was prowling around. She thought she was in deep crap.  
Chapter 4: Not only were Gwyn and Erik wandering (or at least she thought so) around, so was I in a more figurative sense.  
Chapter 5: Je m'appelle is "my name is" (or something like that. Sorry, I'm a first year French). My character FINALLY named herself. :)  
Chapter 6: I felt this was a really choppy _transition_ from one bit of time to another (told ya I get intimidated by naming things)  
Chapter 7: Stole (or adapted) that from the Wizard of Oz. I was feeling like that chapter was kind of weird, though very typical of something I'd imagine.  
Chapter 8: Continuing on the Wizard of Oz tangent, this chapter marks the beginning of the promised 'other woman' theme. (And yes, just in case anyone was wondering, Gwyn either is of age, or she will be soon. She hasn't confided that in me yet.) Christine is the pretty, Raoul is Toto, the fop.   
Chapter 9: Well, he *does*. And I know just the person to give it to him. *grins, then scampers off to go glomp a certain Phantom*  
  
Now, aren't you afraid to ask me any more questions for fear of an excruciatingly detailed response? ;) I had better shut up now, for my a/n is in danger of becoming longer than the chapter. Until next time! 


	10. Homage to the master

Gwyndolyn woke in confusion early in the morning. Her throat ached and she was cold, lying fully cothed on top of her bed with only a light blanket covering her. Her brow furrowed slightly before memory overcame her in a rush.   
  
Until that point she had never realized what real music could be. She sat up and hugged herself tightly, a smile stretching across her cheeks. She and Erik had created a spiritual experience in sound and Gwyndolyn was reveling in the memory.   
  
Erik. She had only been thinking of the music as she changed clothes and primped. With the thought of Erik, the source of such music, she was rocked with an intense physical reaction so fierce she stopped in her tracks.   
  
"Oh, oh, oh. You can not do this." She whispered to herself. "Don't ruin this, oh god!" she pleaded with herself breathlessly. "He can't know. Damn you, body!"  
  
Restored to good humour and composure by that last bit of absurdity, Gwyndolyn decided to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The thought of forsaking the music which had encompassed her soul so readily was painful, but Erik mustn't suspect that she felt so for him.   
  
How prosaic, how rude; she was not half of what such a genius deserved. She was trembling with apprehension when she left her room.   
  
Erik was sitting in a tapestried chair by the hearth reading a black leather-bound book when she entered the main room. He stood immediately and began to speak but she cut him off with a slightly hoarse voice. A light blush coloured her cheeks and she had a strangling grip on her raging hormones.   
  
"Good morning. Let's get started early today, I've got to start work tomorrow and we've got thirty years of music to go through before I'm letting you anywhere near a radio. Now, with the popularization of the phonograph..."   
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Erik also rose early that morning and paced about his chamber like a caged animal. He was trying to compose a decent speech of dismissal for the girl without much luck.   
  
Another part of his mind was constantly intervening and demanding that he stop at once- why run like a frightened child at the first sign of closeness?   
  
"There is no reason for we two not to become friends!" he rationalized, even though the thought of friendship with another human being made him nervous, also.   
  
He'd never had a real friend with the possible exception of that infernal Daroga who had followed him about Europe like a damned basset hound. Even that man had had his ulterior motives, whatever they had been. Persia was a strange land and the actions of its government in sending about its subjects were never to be taken lightly.   
  
As Erik finally tired of casting about for suitable words, he resolved to simply ad lib and took without looking a book from a shelf in the main room and sat down in the first chair he came to. He opened the book at random and was taken a bit aback at the subject matter he had unwittingly chosen.   
  
Thou woudst be loved?-then let thy heart  
From its present pathway part not!  
Being every thing which now thou art,  
Be nothing which thou art not.  
So with the world thy gentle ways,  
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,  
Shall be an endless theme of praise  
And love-a simple duty.  
  
Poe! He almost laughed- an insane bubbling of wild ironic mirth was at his lips- but was stopped suddenly by a small sound.   
He stilled, listening. Was it -yes!- it was Gwyndolyn's door. He braced himself and stood when he sensed her presence in the room.   
  
He took a breath as he turned to face her and began to say "I thank you for all your assistance, however..." but was cut abruptly off at the first syllable. He soon realized that Gwyndolyn was not about to let him get a word in edgewise.   
  
What was causing her to act like a nervous sparrow caught in the stalking gaze of a starving hawk? Could it be that- no. Of course not.   
  
He motioned her to sit and endeavored to pay attention as she prattled away about the creation of modern music, a subject that would have been fascinating under different circumstances. So timorous was she, he didn't even interrupt to ask what under the sun a radio was.   
  
Without intending to he resolved to see how this living opera would play itself out. Gwyndolyn would not be evicted back into the world by his hand on this day. Perhaps, after all, she would like to hear some Poe.  
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Author's Note: About time, I know. Sorry for the long wait. Thank you everyone for your lovely compliments!   
  
Chapter Disclaimers: The poem used in this chapter really is Edgar Allan Poe, so I obviously don't own it (I have about six "complete collections" of Poe's work, for some reason. Like they're really gonna change, right? lol). It's called To F-S S. O-D. Really. I swear.  
As to my comments about Persia, I'm the first to admit that I know nothing. All I know is that its called something else now. It just sounded good, so please don't hurt me, history enthusiasts. Besides, isn't it true about every gov't, anyway?  
  
More soon. As always, PLEASE review! 


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